


Coming to a head

by Naughty_Owl (Perching_Owl)



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Handcuffs, Interrogation rooms, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:54:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22226713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Perching_Owl/pseuds/Naughty_Owl
Summary: 'That was fucking reckless!' Seawoll growls as he marches into the interview room. His grip around Nightingale's elbow is tighter than polite, but politeness can kiss his arse. Along with restraint and professionalism.After Nightingale puts himself into a dangerous situation, emotions boil over in an interview room.
Relationships: Thomas Nightingale/Alexander Seawoll
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	Coming to a head

**Author's Note:**

> I believe the folks responsible know who they are. 
> 
> For everyone else - this is pure smut where I took the suggestion in the form of "handcuffs" and "interview room".

'That was fucking reckless!' Seawoll growls as he marches into the interview room. His grip around Nightingale's elbow is tighter than polite, but politeness can kiss his arse. Along with restraint and professionalism. 

He slams the door to the interview room shut, the bang echoing through the small space. Nightingale does not even flinch, which infuriates him even further. For the moment they are alone. Or as alone as they ever going to be in the bloody nick. He should have taken that idiot straight home. 

Nightingale gives the door an unimpressed glance. He adjusts his cuffs, still white and pristine. There is not even the slightest hint of destroying a den of five awake vampires on his blue pin-striped suit. Which puts more emphasis on his trimmed waist and broad shoulders than necessary. That is nothing to say of the way those slim-cut trousers make Nightingale's legs appear yards longer. And his arse - someone should file a complaint for the immodest way in which those trousers cling to it. 

Nightingale leaves his cuffs alone, then focuses on Seawoll, 'It was unavoidable.' He tilts his head, fingers now adjusting his watch. His gaze is calm, but Seawoll feels as if he is preparing to dig his heels in. 

'We need to deal with vampires, you know that, Alexander.' 

'There was nothing necessary about walking into a den of fucking vampires, especially if you knew they were awake,' Seawoll bellows, anger reaching boiling point again after having simmered the last few moments. His cheeks have heat up, his throat gone tight, his whole frame quivering with rage. He reaches up to loosen his tie. His knuckles on his other hand are white as it is balled into a fist. 'If you had known those fuckers where merrily dancing in there, why go in when you did?' 

'We needed to make sure-' and yes, Seawoll bloody well knows that. It doesn't mean he has to like that. Because he doesn't. He dislikes Nightingale putting himself into danger like that, hates him needing to check Vampire dens for survivors, and loathes Nightingale's cavalier attitude about it. 

So instead he slams their lips together. Nightingale's lips are still parted, pliant beneath his, out of surprise. Their teeth clash together, scraping against each other, as Seawoll surges forward. One hand comes to the back of Nightingale's neck while the other finds their way to the lapel of his suit jacket, pulling him forward. 

It doesn't take long until Nightingale kisses back. It's bruising, hungry, and for someone so fucking composed, he sure as hell kisses like there is no tomorrow, all open-mouthed and devouring. The kiss taste of coffee, anger, and a faint trace of copper. Nightingale's hands come up - either to push the other DCI back or pull him closer. 

Seawoll growls, gripping those elegant hands, 'No, my turn.' 

He pushes Nightingale back, one hand on his chest where his beating heart is. He forces him towards the middle of the room, to one of the chairs, reserved for the suspects. There he pushes Nightingale down. 

The other man goes willingly, his face impassive, except maybe for careful consideration. Grey eyes are focused on every movement of Seawoll's, and Seawoll is sure Nightingale could have subdued him any moment. He hasn't though. Instead he is breathing heavier from the kiss, lips reddened, tongue peeking out and running over the tender flesh. The front of his suit shows where Seawoll has grabbed it so tight he crumbled the fabric. For now he doesn't give a damn. 

He pounces, his arms tightening on Nightingale's upper arms, then smashing their mouths back together again. It's killing Seawoll's back, bending this way over Nightingale, but it is worth it. As he breaks away, Nightingale needs to look up at him, baring the long line of his throat. 

A grin is forming on Nightingale's face, playfulness seeping into the carefully crafted mask. It appears Seawoll is not the only one affected by the day's events as he sees Nightingale still riding that adrenaline high from being alive. The thought alone brings back the need grip tight onto Nightingale and never let go. At least until he has yelled enough at him, until that idiot understands that people care. 

Nightingale shifts. Something about the movement draws Seawoll's gaze downwards towards Nightingale's crotch. Especially as he sees Nightingale moving his legs further apart. There is a bulge forming there. Indecent, reckless, wrong, rings through Seawoll's thoughts. He shoves the part worrying about where they are and what they doing away, emotions still riding high. 

Seawoll moves forward, kicking Nightingale's foot to make him spread his legs more. He complies, eyes running over Seawoll's body with hunger. Then he reclines, gaze dropping towards his lap and drawing Seawoll's gaze there. 

That bastard, Seawoll thinks, crossing his arms and balling his hands into fists. He doesn't trust himself with moving now as his eye remain glued to Nightingale's bulge. Not a lot of imagination is needed to think about the arousal, the precum forming on Nightingale's tip, and shit- that bastard is testing him. That glint in Nightingale's eyes. 

Seawoll's brows furrow. Well, two can play this game, anger and lust colouring his thoughts. If Nightingale doesn't care about being so blatant - or being caught - then it's fucking on. It sends a thrill through Seawoll, leaving his mouth dry. Lunging for Nightingale, he brings their mouths together again. 

At once Nightingale reaches for him, trying to pull him down with his tie, but Seawoll leans back slightly, growling close to Nightingale's ear, 'I'm in charge of this operation.' 

He is pretty sure, Nightingale wants to retort something - perhaps even chuckle - only he gets distracted by Seawoll reaching for his arms, pushing them behind the back of the chair and running his hand towards Nightingale's wrists. Their mouths are occupied again, a grin forming on Seawoll's face. 

Click. 

The sound of the handcuffs is almost drowned out by the wet noises they are making, the open kisses, their clothes rustling, but the weight of them is not lost on Nightingale as cold metal closes around his wrists. 

'As I said, I'm in charge,' Seawoll grunts as he leans back. Nightingale is staring at him - if there had been surprise, now it is replaced with lust. His pupils are blown wide, his cheeks red, and he looks ready to be mussed up. A grin forms on Seawoll's face. They don't have a lot of time, anyone could walk in where they are. Nightingale is probably counting on that, in need for some quick, rushed release. That's not going to happen. He wants to know how desperate Nightingale can look, how pretty he is with his hair ruffled, his clothes crumbled, how beautiful he is coming undone. 

Some of the anger leaves him, so Seawoll places a kiss on his forehead, the first tender gesture of their encounter. Nightingale strains up, seeking to deepen the kiss, but Seawoll lingers, peppering kisses over that nose before the barest of brushes against those thin lips. A desperate sound escapes Nightingale, almost chocked off, then the man says, 'You are a tease, Detective Chief Inspector.' 

The title rolls of his tongue, posh and clipped. A sure way to usually get Seawoll going. The attempt to rile him up leaves Seawoll grinning. He runs his hands over the shirt beneath the suit, the broad chest beneath his hands. There will be an undershirt underneath it, one Nightingale would aim to get rid off as quickly as possible, but Seawoll is going to keep this on. In fact most of their clothes are going to stay on. After all they shouldn't be doing this here in the first place. They could get caught. 

Maybe he shouldn't even make a move for Nightingale's trousers - let him cum inside of them. Seawoll pushes his knee on the chair between Nightingale's thighs, close to that bulge. Nightingale scoots forward in the chair, seeking friction and earning him another needy sound. 

He reaches out, putting a bit of distance between their faces, his hands still running over Nightingale's upper body, over the shirt, over his chest, and then down his sides. Nightingale pushes against him. His cock is hard against Seawoll's thigh. His flush has darkened, his breathing has become small puffs of air, and his well-groomed hair is starting to fall apart. 

And Seawoll cannot wait to take Nightingale apart, especially as the man begins to realise Seawoll has no trouble with teasing him. So he reaches out, running a finger along Nightingale's smooth jaw, further down that pale throat where his muscles are straining as Nightingale has his head tilted up, and then slowly loosens his tie. For a brief moment he thinks about letting Nightingale rut against his leg, making him seek his own orgasm and only watching him. 

But he has something better in mind. He slips his knee off, which earns him an exhale of air, almost annoyed. Instead he presses his mouth against Nightingale's throat, kissing, sucking, and nibbling. Nightingale's restraint is admirable, but only until a certain point. After that it becomes frustration as apparently the man refuses to make any more noises, even as Seawoll gives the base of Nightingale's throat a harsher nib. He moves off the chair, falling to his knees in front of Nightingale. 

From this perspective Nightingale is even more deshelled, much more attractive and closer to coming undone than Seawoll would have guessed. The tautness of his thighs as Nightingale had planted his feet firmly on the ground, hands with white knuckles wrapped tight around the bars of the chair, and his cock straining against those suit trousers. So close Seawoll can almost taste. Well. Almost. His mouth watering, Seawoll reaches out. He runs his hands over those strong, suit-clad thighs, the tension beneath making them hard as they strain to keep still. His thumbs run along the inseam, sending a shiver through Nightingale. 

This is it, Seawoll thinks, heady from seeing Nightingale fighting his composure. They should stop. They should walk away from this, as long as they are still clothed. But no other reason comes close to the want, the need, and the underlying anger. 

So he reaches for Nightingale's belt, undoing before continuing with his suit trousers. It earns him a chocked off sound, something quiet he almost had missed, a note of disbelief hanging in the air. 

With a grin he continues to open Nightingale's trousers, his movements slow. As if they have all the time in the world, as if no one could walk in, as if nothing could make them stop. Then he pulls Nightingale's cock free. He wraps one hand around it, his mouth watering, a smile creeping over his face, as he sees Nightingale throwing his head back, lips pressed together.

The muscles of his throat are tense, shoulders rigid, almost ready to snap. And with their eyes meeting, Seawoll's sees the storm brewing inside of Nightingale, begging for release. Shit. Without averting his gaze, Seawoll opens his mouth, moving forward, then giving Nightingale a careful lick, his tongue just barely brushing over him. If he could see his hands from this position, Seawoll is sure Nightingale's knuckles would have turned white. With a grin, he leans forward again, feeling those thighs beneath his hands, quivering now with tension. This time he takes him down whole, his mouth wrapping around Nightingale's cock. 

The sound Nightingale makes is choked off. Something between a curse and a moan. Maybe because they need to keep quiet, it sends a wave of heady arousal through Seawoll. Maybe because he knows how composed Nightingale can be. Even for that sound to escape, the other man is going to approach his limit fast. 

Well, it's better if they do this quick. Otherwise people could start looking for them. He doesn't even know for how long they have been here. So Seawoll begins to bob his head, taking more and more of Nightingale. It earns him soft noises, groans, sounds almost close to begging. 

Of course, Nightingale wouldn't voice that, but he moves up, almost thrusting into Seawoll. If given the opportunity, he would have buried his hands in Seawoll's hair, urging him. This way he is at Seawoll's mercy though. A grin passes over Seawoll's face, he speeds the movement up, and Nightingale's head falls back, 'I can't-' 

Seawoll would have responded if he hadn't had the mouth full of cock, so he lets it slide, instead intensifying his movements, one hand wrapping around Nightingale's base. After that it's quick. Almost too quick to savour. Nightingale throws his head back, shuddering beneath Seawoll's strong grip, his release filling Seawoll's mouth. He needs to swallow, not keen on having body fluids all over Nightingale's clothes. Or his own. 

After Nightingale has spilled, Seawoll moves away, sitting back on the interview table, breathing heavy, the taste of semen still in his mouth. He wipes over it with the back of his hand, grateful when only spit remains there. Nightingale in front of him is breathing heavy as well, but he appears sated, a small smile creeping over his face, and the need for something tangible not that desperate anymore. Instead he pushes his chair forward, letting it scrape over the hard floor, so he can sit between Seawoll's legs, shuffling, until he can lay his head on Seawoll's leg. 

'I can return the favour,' Nightingale's voice is hoarse, rough, and utterly perfect. Also, entirely too close to Seawoll's cock. A smile is spreading over Nightingale's face, somewhere between mischievous and grateful. His gaze drops towards the tent in Seawoll's pants and he arches an eyebrow. 

Seawoll groans. In the back of his mind he recalls people might be searching for them, but the image of Nightingale resting his cheek on his thigh, looking up at him, hands cuffed behind his back. Damn, he wants this. He fumbles as he opens his trousers, and Nightingale leans forward eagerly. 

Seawoll buries his hands in that thick hair, enjoying the silkiness, and guides Nightingale towards his own cock. His mouth is as hot as the man himself, and Seawoll thrusts into that almost on impulse. Nightingale though is not bothered by it, no, in fact he leans forward even more, and Seawoll responds. It's not going to take long, barely a few thrusts later, Seawoll groans, spilling down Nightingale's throat. 

It leaves them both panting, and Seawoll slumps backwards. In front of him, Nightingale is sitting between his thighs, on the chair, legs spread- and fuck, trousers are still open, his cock still out. It's an image, which sure as hell going to haunt him. He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment and rubbing his temples. Then he reaches for his own trousers, tugging himself back in. By now his anger has disappeared, leaving only worry behind, 'Are you alright, Thomas?' 

Thomas blinks, looking up at him, 'Yes, I am. For the most part. It's been a stressful day.' 

'That it has,' Seawoll agree. He opens his mouth to add something inane, when the hairs on the back of his neck rise, then Thomas exhales, and metal falls to the ground. 

'You could have freed yourselves of those anytime?' Seawoll doesn't know whether he is impressed or feeling stupid. But Thomas smiles as he stands up, rubbing his hands. 

'Not anytime. But for the most part,' the boyish grin remains as Thomas makes himself presentable by sorting his trousers. Seawoll keeps sitting on the table, observing those fine hands, the way his chest moves with every breath, the way his hair has begun to fall into his face and to curl. Nightingale pauses in his movements as he realises there are eyes on him. So he stops as he is adjusting his cuffs and he leans up and kisses Seawoll. 

After they break apart, Seawoll sighs, 'Nothing but trouble the lot of you.' He reaches out, arms coming around Thomas' waist. 'How about we go home? Order some take-away, spend the evening on the couch, go to bed early, and see where this evening leads us.' 

Thomas' grin would have been answer enough, but the soft kiss seals the deal.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - wow, this was my first fanfic of 2020, along with the first fic I ever posted on ao3 for the Rivers of London fandom. Feel free to message me on [tumblr at perchingowl](url) if you want to chat about Seagale or Rivers of London in general. 
> 
> Also, comments, kudos, and constructive critisimn are very welcome!


End file.
